Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
distance from the Marquesas and the Sandwich Islands, crossed the
tropic of Cancer, and made for the China Seas. We were on the theatre
of the last diversions of the monster: and, to say truth, we no longer
_lived_ on board. Hearts palpitated, fearfully preparing themselves for
future incurable aneurism. The entire ship’s crew were undergoing a
nervous excitement, of which I can give no idea: they could not eat,
they could not sleep—twenty times a day, a misconception or an optical
illusion of some sailor seated on the taffrail, would cause dreadful
perspirations, and these emotions, twenty times repeated, kept us in a
state of excitement so violent that a reaction was unavoidable.
And truly, reaction soon showed itself. For three months, during which
a day seemed an age, the _Abraham Lincoln_ furrowed all the waters of
the Northern Pacific, running at whales, making sharp deviations from
her course, veering suddenly from one tack to another, stopping
suddenly, putting on steam, and backing ever and anon at the risk of
deranging her machinery, and not one point of the Japanese or American
coast was left unexplored.
The warmest partisans of the enterprise now became its most ardent
detractors. Reaction mounted from the crew to the captain himself, and
certainly, had it not been for resolute determination on the part of
Captain Farragut, the frigate would have headed due southward. This
useless search could not last much longer. The _Abraham Lincoln_ had
nothing to reproach herself with, she had done her best to succeed.
Never had an American ship’s crew shown more zeal or patience; its
failure could not be placed to their charge—there remained nothing but
to return.
This was represented to the commander. The sailors could not hide their
discontent, and the service suffered. I will not say there was a mutiny
on board, but after a reasonable period of obstinacy, Captain Farragut
(as Columbus did) asked for three days’ patience. If in three days the
monster did not appear, the man at the helm should give three turns of
the wheel, and the _Abraham Lincoln_ would make for the European seas.
This promise was made on the 2nd of November. It had the effect of
rallying the ship’s crew. The ocean was watched with renewed attention.
Each one wished for a last glance in which to sum up his remembrance.
Glasses were used with feverish activity. It was a grand defiance given
to the giant narwhal, and he could scarcely fail to answer the summons
and “appear.”
Two days passed, the steam was at half pressure; a thousand schemes
were tried to attract the attention and stimulate the apathy of the
animal in case it should be met in those parts. Large quantities of
bacon were trailed in the wake of the ship, to the great satisfaction
(I must say) of the sharks. Small craft radiated in all directions
round the _Abraham Lincoln_ as she lay to, and did not leave a spot of
the sea unexplored. But the night of the 4th of November arrived
without the unveiling of this submarine mystery.
The next day, the 5th of November, at twelve, the delay would (morally
speaking) expire; after that time, Commander Farragut, faithful to his
promise, was to turn the course to the south-east and abandon for ever
the northern regions of the Pacific.
The frigate was then in 31° 15′ north latitude and 136° 42′ east
longitude. The coast of Japan still remained less than two hundred
miles to leeward. Night was approaching. They had just struck eight
bells; large clouds veiled the face of the moon, then in its first
quarter. The sea undulated peaceably under the stern of the vessel.
At that moment I was leaning forward on the starboard netting. Conseil,
standing near me, was looking straight before him. The crew, perched in
the ratlines, examined the horizon, which contracted and darkened by
degrees. Officers with their night glasses scoured the growing
darkness; sometimes the ocean sparkled under the rays of the moon,
which darted between two clouds, then all trace of light was lost in
the darkness.
In looking at Conseil, I could see he was undergoing a little of the
general influence. At least I thought so. Perhaps for the first time
his nerves vibrated to a sentiment of curiosity.
“Come, Conseil,” said I, “this is the last chance of pocketing the two
thousand dollars.”
“May I be permitted to say, sir,” replied Conseil, “that I never
reckoned on getting the prize; and, had the government of the Union
offered a hundred thousand dollars, it would have been none the
poorer.”
“You are right, Conseil. It is a foolish affair after all, and one upon
which we entered too lightly. What time lost, what useless emotions! We
should have been back in France six months ago.”
“In your little room, sir,” replied Conseil, “and in your museum, sir,
and I should have already classed all your fossils, sir. And the
Babiroussa would have been installed in its cage in the Jardin des
Plantes, and have drawn all the curious people of the capital!”
“As you say, Conseil. I fancy we shall run a fair chance of being
laughed at for our pains.”
“That’s tolerably certain,” replied Conseil, quietly; “I think they
will make fun of you, sir. And, must I say it?”
“Go on, my good friend.”
“Well, sir, you will only get your deserts.”
“Indeed!”
“When one has the honour of being a savant as you are, sir, one should
not expose one’s self to——”
Conseil had not time to finish his compliment. In the midst of general
silence a voice had just been heard. It was the voice of Ned Land
shouting—
“Look out there! The very thing we are looking for—on our weather
beam!”
CHAPTER VI
AT FULL STEAM
At this cry the whole ship’s crew hurried towards the
harpooner,—commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the
engineers left their engines, and the stokers their furnaces.
The order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went
on by her own momentum. The darkness was then profound, and however
good the Canadian’s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to
see, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would
break. But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object
he pointed to. At two cables’ length from the _Abraham Lincoln_, on the
starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was
not a mere phosphoric phenomenon. The monster emerged some fathoms from
the water, and then threw out that very intense but inexplicable light
mentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent
irradiation must have been produced by an agent of great _shining_
power. The luminous part traced on the sea an immense oval, much
elongated, the centre of which condensed a burning heat, whose
overpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.
“It is only an agglomeration of phosphoric particles,” cried one of the
officers.
“No, sir, certainly not,” I replied. “Never did pholades or salpæ
produce such a powerful light. That brightness is of an essentially
electrical nature. Besides, see, see! it moves; it is moving forwards,
backwards; it is darting towards us!”
A general cry rose from the frigate.
“Silence!” said the Captain; “up with the helm, reverse the engines.”
The steam was shut off, and the _Abraham Lincoln_, beating to port,
described a semicircle.
“Right the helm, go ahead,” cried the Captain.
These orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the
burning light.
I was mistaken. She tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal
approached with a velocity double her own.
We gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us dumb and
motionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made
the round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and
enveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust. Then it moved
away two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those
volumes of steam that the express trains leave behind. All at once from
the dark line of the horizon whither it retired to gain its momentum,
the monster rushed suddenly towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ with alarming
rapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died
out,—not diving under the water, for its brilliancy did not abate,—but
suddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was
exhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it
had turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have
occurred which would have been fatal to us. However, I was astonished
at the manœuvres of the frigate. She fled and did not attack.
On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of
unaccountable astonishment.
“M. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I
have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst
of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend
one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.”
“You have no further doubt, captain, of the nature of the animal?”
“No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.”
“Perhaps,” added I, “one can only approach it with a gymnotus or a
torpedo.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful
power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is
why, sir, I must be on my guard.”
The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The
_Abraham Lincoln_, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had
moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the
narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and
seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle. Towards
midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term,
it “died out” like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear,
not hope. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a
deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a body of water
rushing with great violence.
The captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering
through the profound darkness.
“Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of
whales?”
“Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two
thousand dollars. If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of
it!”
“But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at
your disposal?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“That will be trifling with the lives of my men.”
“And mine too,” simply said the harpooner.
Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not
less intense, about five miles to windward of the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one
heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its
panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal
had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was
engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a
machine of two thousand horse-power.
“Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment
would be a pretty whale!”
We were on the _qui vive_ till daylight, and prepared for the combat.
The fishing implements were laid along the hammock nettings. The second
lieutenant loaded the blunderbusses, which could throw harpoons to the
distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which
inflicted mortal wounds even to the most terrible animals. Ned Land
contented himself with sharpening his harpoon—a terrible weapon in his
hands.
At six o’clock day began to break; and, with the first glimmer of
light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock
the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured